


All That Jazz

by TerenceFletcher



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Christmas Eve, Holiday Mixtape 2017, Jazz - Freeform, M/M, Music, Romance, SPN Holiday Mixtape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-02
Updated: 2017-12-02
Packaged: 2019-02-09 18:53:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12894537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TerenceFletcher/pseuds/TerenceFletcher
Summary: Bartending at an old jazz bar in New York City, Dean isn’t particularly involved. He just goes with the stream of a big city life and does a great job of keeping himself aloof from everything — except for one client that comes to the bar every Thursday. After a while, Dean gets curious what is it that brings this weird man around again and again.





	All That Jazz

**Author's Note:**

> Written for SPN Holiday Mixtape challenge.
> 
> Greatest thanks to [Bucket Siler](http://bucketsiler.tumblr.com), an amazing editor and writing advisor, for helping to polish this story. It's been a true pleasure to work with such a professional, and I'm grateful and flattered that I had some of her time for this little fic.

Jimmy’s Bar wasn’t a fancy place. Its days of glory had been long gone — along with celebrities dropping in for the best cocktails in Greenwich Village. Now, no one even remembered when the last of such visits had taken place. The iron fence over the basement windows had gotten rusty, photographs on the walls faded from black and white to sepia. Even the dusty air, still keeping a faint scent of tobacco smoke, was awash with decay and nostalgia for the better times.

The bar, approaching its hundredth year anniversary, had probably witnessed more 20th-century events than any of the area’s current residents. Coincidentally, it had opened right before Prohibition crushed the industry, but had somehow survived it, and thirteen years later, Jimmy’s celebrated its revival. It witnessed the breakout of World War II and mourned Pearl Harbor; changed its blinds to black for Kennedy and consoled the survivors of Vietnam. It outlived seventeen presidents and watched the election of the eighteenth. Its smoke-stained walls had heard more stories, yelled and whispered, than any reporter could ever think of writing, but had forgotten all of them.

And yet, Dean enjoyed working there. The place gave him an indistinct, sinking feeling of time slipping through his fingers, a sort of a sweet sorrow one hesitates to admit and at the same time refuses to forget.

This feeling gained momentum every Thursday afternoon with clockwork precision. Strangely nervous and hawk-eyed, Dean watched the entrance door and wiped his counter so hard that he risked wearing a hole in it.

It wasn’t the job of his dreams. He wasn’t into crowded places where he couldn’t even drive, but it turned out that a bartender in New York City was paid way better than a mechanic in Lawrence. Dean accepted that gross injustice with the stoicism of Columbus at America’s doorstep. With Sam graduating from Stanford next year, money was a valid reason to change priorities for a while.

He found the place somewhat accidentally — thanks to an attractive yoga instructor that he’d once spent a few weekends with back in Kansas. A couple years later, she still remembered him (better than Dean had actually expected), and when he told her he was thinking of moving to New York, she became pretty enthusiastic. She even offered him a spare bedroom in her apartment in exchange for cooking and occasional housekeeping duties. “You know how much I hate all that, don’t you?” she’d said, and Dean could practically see her smiling over the phone.

He agreed straight away, certain that he would move once he found a job. He never did. After a few months, what Dean considered a temporary solution evolved into a permanent one, and a red-brick house in Greenwich Village became his home. It suited both him and Lisa. They didn’t share a bed anymore but retained a sort of quiet, unbound friendship that sometimes happens with long-divorced couples. In fact, having almost opposite work schedules, they barely saw each other. Usually, when Dean came home, Lisa was already asleep, and when he woke up, she was already gone. With Dean’s complicated feelings about relationships, this arrangement worked out perfectly.

Lisa’s yoga class was located on the second floor of the building, right below their apartment. Two floors below the yoga class, in the basement, sat Jimmy’s Bar. On his first day in New York, Dean had just peeked in to ask if they were hiring — and coincidentally, they were. Later he wondered if it was someone’s hand that had made him open that rusty door. Maybe it was the hand of fate.

So there he still was, living an ordinary big-city life. Walking down every morning and up every night, stirring drinks he didn’t taste, listening to music he didn’t like, sharing a roof with a woman he didn’t love. He felt unremarkable as a grain of sand on a beach and only cared about doing a good job at the bar.

Jimmy’s diverse clientele, varying from raccoon-eyed Manhattan clerks to occasional tourists, was less demanding than the one Dean had to serve in his other workplaces. The people seemed happy with simple drinks and snacks and were always up for small talk at the bar counter. Dean was good at chatting with strangers so normally he didn’t mind taking up a conversation.

With one exception.

That exception was a dark-haired man in his late twenties. He had a strange addiction to his tan trench coat that he wore rain or shine, and always carried a vintage leather shoulder bag. He came once a week and never ordered anything but black coffee. Every time, he occupied the same tiny table in the corner — the least preferred by other people for its ridiculous size and ugly, dim-glassed lamp — but he didn’t seem to be bothered by either.

Judging by his business looks — probably dated the late eighties — he worked somewhere in Manhattan and dropped in on his way home. Jimmy’s sat close to 7th Avenue, right opposite a subway station, which made it an ideal stopover for those who warmed their seats in the steel and glass fortresses.

He always came alone and never stayed long. Unlike most of Jimmy’s customers who came to enjoy late-night drinks, he appeared and left much earlier, avoiding the major horde. Silently sipping his coffee, he would sit in his corner for about three hours and then leave, just as quietly.

He barely paid attention to anything or anyone around him. His only interest was a yellow-paged notepad that he always brought along. Thick with sticky notes and bookmarks, it took its place on the table even before its owner took his chair and stayed open until the last minute he spent at the bar. Each visit added a few more pages to the existing notes and, before putting the notepad back into the leather bag, the man checked carefully to see how much he’d written.

It felt weird. Everything about him felt a bit weird, but to Dean, this exact detail was the weirdest of all. He couldn’t find a single reason why someone would come here and write. Jimmy’s wasn’t a bad place. It was rather cool, actually, but with its darkness and shaky tables, it definitely was the last place for writing.

As weeks went by, the man kept coming, and Dean kept darting silent gazes at the table in the corner, wondering why both those things were happening. His curiosity was never satisfied, and the more he looked, the less he understood. Intrigued and impatient, he finally asked his co-workers if they knew anything about the man.

“Oh, Mr. Trench Coat?” Mike said. “Nope. No idea.”

“He looks like an undercover cop,” Lia, the cashier, added. “Maybe he’s taking notes on everything we say.”

Mike snorted. “Bullshit. He doesn’t even listen. Just stares at his scribble.”

“Okay, but don’t say I didn't warn you.”

Dean smiled at them and shook his head. He’d seen cops before, undercover or not, and Mr. Trench Coat didn’t look like any of them.

Like any mystery, it was appealing. Perhaps even too appealing, because for some unknown, ridiculous reason Dean could not make himself start talking to the subject of that mystery. The moment the man took his place at the table and opened his notepad, all Dean’s determination, all his pickup expertise and courage, just evaporated. Every afternoon, he eyed the entrance with witty bon mot ready on his tongue, but once the door opened, he got numb. The best he managed was an awkward smile and a mumbled “The usual?” for a greeting.

He had no idea what was wrong with him. He was twenty-five, he had a nice job in New York City, and of course he had relationships behind him — nothing serious, but still, something to be considered. Normally, if Dean wanted to ask someone out, it would just be a matter of seconds and a few casual words for the start. He wouldn’t even bother thinking about what to say beforehand.

It worked every time. Every time, that is, except with Mr. Trench Coat.

More than once Dean wondered why. At first, it seemed to be just a subconscious fear to be blown off. His gut always told him when he had no chance, and every time it happened, he followed his inner voice with full obedience, forcing himself to ignore the temptation. With Mr. Trench Coat, Dean felt nothing like that. On the contrary, something told him that he wouldn’t hear ‘no.’ The only thing was — he suspected he wouldn’t hear anything at all. Maybe he was just a bartender, but he didn’t like to be looked over. Being unnoticed was worse than being rejected.

And the other, more practical, reason for his frustration was that he felt he was a bit below the line for the guy who was writing in the bar like it was the most natural thing in the world. Dean hated writing (both manual and electronic). The longest thing he had written in the last few years was probably his own last name. In fact, it would be easier if Mr. Trench Coat was writing police reports as Mike had supposed: at least, that would feel familiar.

So Dean just kept counting days from Thursday to Thursday, wiping his counter, and gazing at the door.

#

By the week before Thanksgiving, Dean had made some minor progress.

Leaving his counter to collect empty glasses, sometimes Dean paused nearby the table in the corner as if to rearrange the tray. These stops helped him to get a closer look at his visitor. For instance, he noticed that Mr. Trench Coat’s tie was always twisted and its knot had clearly never been untied. The coat itself, always hanging from the back of the chair, looked messed. Although his haircut left much to be desired, when he rubbed the back of his neck, his overgrown hair curled nicely behind his ear. His jawline was outlined with day-old stubble in the hottest possible way. His eyes were usually lowered, and that unlucky fact, along with the darkness around him, made it impossible to determine their color, but his eyelashes were totally perfect. He also had elegant hands with long fingers and surprisingly exquisite writing.

Along with these important facts, Dean noticed something else. During his visits, Mr. Trench Coat wasn’t writing non-stop. Occasionally, he glanced up and froze still, staring into the void, the corner of his mouth curved into a tiny smile.

Whenever Dean happened to be close, he slackened his pace to catch that look and make eye contact (as if out of pure curiosity). He rarely succeeded, but pretty soon, it occurred to him that there was a certain pattern behind those random looks. Most of them coincided with the music that was playing. Listening, the man would squint his eyes and slightly tilt his head aside as if thinking hard or trying to recognize the tune. As he did this, his expression softened, and he got back to his writing.

Dean went on watching him, and one day it dawned on him. It was so obvious that Dean couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought about it sooner.

The man enjoyed the music.

Since its earliest years, Jimmy’s Bar had always played jazz. A few generations of its management had good taste for it and, with an old-fashioned stubbornness, leaned to one single style. According to Mike’s stories and the faded pictures on the walls, they even had it live back in the day. With its cramped room, Jimmy’s could not boast having top stars, but performers of moderate fame had valued the place for its grateful audience and easy atmosphere.

But live concerts had run their course in the late eighties, and Jimmy’s had gradually shifted over to background instrumental records. No one appeared to be listening to them, though. For most customers, the sax solos and piano off-beats blended with the clinking of glasses and the music struggled vainly through cell ringtones.

But not for Mr. Trench Coat.

It was a clue. More than that, it was an exciting opportunity to break that stupid wall of silence. Because if there was one thing Dean knew well, it was music. The only problem was — it was different music.

Dean knew nothing about jazz. It was so out of his league that he hardly remembered ever listening to it. He could probably handle swing or blues, but classic jazz, with its vague rhythm and endless improvisation pieces, bored him by the second minute. It was like elevator music: one forgot it the moment the doors opened, a mere variety of sounds making no particular sense.

But it was the only lead Dean had, and he couldn’t fail to investigate it.

The next morning, he borrowed Lisa’s laptop and read three extensive Wikipedia pages about jazz. By the time he clicked on the fourth, names and facts were flickering before his eyes. There was so much information — at least for the first-time reader — but none of it was bringing Dean any closer to the answer. The music style existing for more than a century was nothing compared to Dean’s favorite classic rock that fit easily into a couple of decades. He realized he could spend weeks researching jazz history and still wouldn’t have anything to say about it to someone who was into the subject. He definitely needed a snap course.

He reached for his phone and dialed Sam.

“Do you know anything about jazz?” Dean asked.

A grumpy noise followed, and he heard Sam’s voice, sleepy and hoarse. “It’s six in the morning, Dean. Couldn’t it wait?”

Dean swore mutely at the damned time zones he always kept forgetting.

“Sorry. So… do you?”

“What?”

“Jazz, Sam.”

There was a long pause. Apparently, Sam was trying to think it over.

“Louis Armstrong. Duke Ellington. Ella Fitzgerald. Miles Davis.”

Dean thoroughly wrote down all the names. He fidgeted with a pencil in his fingers, waiting for more, but Sam was silent.

“Are you gonna elaborate?”

“Google it.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Come on. Don’t you know anything else?”

“Dean…” Sam sighed on the phone. “I have a test in two hours. Roman law-based system. Five hundred pages and forty questions. I was studying until three in the morning. My head is about to burst. If I think of something, I’ll give you a call.”

He hung up.

Dean glanced at the sheet of paper with the four names. Not much, and not particularly relevant — those Dean had already known (except for maybe the last one, Miles Davis, that didn’t ring a bell.) Although he’d been reluctant, Sam had given him one good piece of advice: Dean had to move from the general to the specific.

He grabbed his laptop and returned to the couch. Lisa wasn’t home, so he didn’t bother putting on his headphones, just increased the built-in speaker volume. Then he opened a Youtube search and started typing in the names.

#

He woke up to his phone ringing. Youtube was still on autoplay, and Dean paused it, wincing at the clock in the corner of the screen. It was nearly noon.

“Hello?”

“Any progress on the jazz?” Sam’s voice was nastily energetic.

Dean yawned and rubbed his eyes. “How was your test?”

“Good. It was good, and I’m a free man for the whole next week. Now it sounds like an eternity.” He grinned. “But you know what? I couldn’t stop wondering how come you were interested in jazz.”

“Why’s that?”

“This is little short of treachery,” Sam said. “You were always like that rock-forever guy, weren’t you? What happened?”

“I work at a jazz bar,” Dean reminded him. “I have to be informed.”

“Sure thing.”

“It has nothing to do with that ‘sure thing.’”

Sam laughed. “Obviously. It’s just… it just occurred to me that beyond that, there could be someone who’s not a fan of Led Zeppelin, and someone else who’s trying to make a good impression with his knowledge of music. Just saying.”

Dean lowered his eyes to the laptop screen. An African-American musician with his trumpet pressed to his lips stood frozen there, his cheeks blown up with air like he had an apple behind each cheek. Dean had no idea who it was.

“The court has heard you,” he said slowly. “Now get back to your homework.”

“You too,” Sam managed to say before Dean ended the call.

Dean put the laptop away and went to make himself coffee.

Drinking it, he thought the case over again. The conclusion he made was not encouraging. However, he was crystal clear on one thing: his initial approach was counterproductive and required a lot of time. He had to think of something else, something more specific.

To cut to the chase, he decided to interrogate Mike as the oldest (and friendliest) employee.

“What is it we’re playing here?” he asked once they were alone at the counter.

Mike shrugged. “Can’t you hear? It’s jazz.”

“Yeah, I figured that much. But what exactly? Does it have a title or something?”

“Are you a fan or what?”

I’m getting to it, Dean thought.

“Uh-huh,” he muttered, “kinda fan. So what about the titles?”

“All our CDs are in the office,” Mike said, waving at the door behind him, “and for the titles, ask Bernie, he might know a thing or two.”

Dean waited for a break and knocked politely at Bernie’s office door — also known as Mr. Bernstein, their boss. He was determined to get what he needed.

When Dean explained the purpose of his visit, Bernie looked at him over his glasses with the doubtful expression of a school principal seeing his worst student volunteering to take an exam. He raised his eyebrow.

“I have a full anthology of jazz here,” he said, “from the twenties until the present. However, like most old men I’m quite conservative and tend to think that all the best is in the past…” He got up and walked up to the wall-high shelf of CDs. “Are you looking for anything in particular? New Orleans? Chicago? New York?”

Dean shifted from foot to foot. “Uh… I’m not sure. I was just wondering about the tracks we were playing. You know, those… without a voice.”

“Instrumental,” Bernie corrected him, frowning a little. “Let me see… Usually I go with these albums.” He brushed his fingers along the plastic boxes at his eye level. “The golden classics. Charlie Parker, Lester Young, Dizzy Gillespie, Thelonious Monk, Miles Davis…”

Dean caught himself recognizing the last name. “Can I borrow them for a while?” he asked, trying not to think how long it would take him to listen to all that stuff.

“We use them quite often.”

“You’ll have them back before we open for the day,” Dean promised.

Chewing his lower lip, Bernie gave it thought. For a moment or two, he glared at Dean’s plaid shirt and jeans as if estimating the rate of their diligence.

“You can take no more than two at a time,” he said at last. “After you return them, you can take another two.”

“Agreed.” Dean smiled gratefully. “Thank you, Mr. Bernstein.”

Bernie nodded. “Welcome to the world of jazz, boy.”

#

He spent the whole next week listening to the albums. At first, he tried to identify the pieces he’d heard at the bar — _the_ _Thursday pieces_ — but after spending hours with his headphones, he gave up. He just couldn’t hear the difference. The tracks sounded so similar, so unremarkably the same, that Dean failed to follow their tunes.

Unlike rock music, which drilled right into his heart and only then echoed in the head, jazz touched the brain first, wrapping it into a cloud of drums rustling like a blanket, then reached the heart in a subtle aftermath. It wasn’t persistent and didn’t demand a certain mood; rather, it created one regardless of the listener’s will. It seemed strangely relaxing, this obscure music, and at times Dean felt tempted to surrender to the musky trumpets playing in his ears.

But he was stubborn and — more importantly — genuinely interested. He might not become true expert, but now he wished to understand what it was about jazz that Mr. Trench Coat liked so much. Because Dean was sure there was something, he just had to seize the opportunity.

Staring out his window at the November sky, gray with clouds and smoke, Dean went on playing Bernie’s disks. Apparently, the records he had been given weren’t called golden classics for nothing, and Dean couldn’t help but notice their virtuosity and audacity of style. They didn’t feel like sleeping pills anymore, quite the opposite, they captivated Dean to an extent hadn’t even expected. Gradually, without noticing it, he advanced to catching those exact moments when a new improvisation riff took its rise. He replayed the pieces he enjoyed the best, and each time, they sounded a bit different.

He was beginning to like them.

He still didn’t feel confident enough with the naming (and probably would fail to recall their titles without referencing the disks’ covers), but for someone who had been barely able to tell a sax from a trumpet just a week before, he had made amazing progress. He was proud of himself. He almost didn’t miss his favorite rock tapes, although deep in his mind, he hoped he would someday have the chance to introduce the music of his choice, too. If things went well, he added to himself, it would be worth trying.

 _If_ things went well.

#

On Thanksgiving, they were closing early. With no plans of his own, Dean volunteered for the last shift and was alone at the counter. To his well-hidden disappointment, the holiday fell on a Thursday, and chances of seeing Mr. Trench Coat on such a day were near-zero. He had already resigned himself to another week of waiting, when the door creaked open.

A familiar figure emerged at the doorstep, imperturbable and serene as always. It was raining during that whole week, and the man’s disheveled hair was glistening with water. His perpetual leather bag was dark with moisture, and his trench coat was dripping pathetically onto the tiled floor.

He looked around. For a moment, he kept his gaze on the table in the corner but didn’t approach it. Instead, he headed straight to the counter.

Dean swallowed.

As the distance between them was shortening, Dean held his breath. Momentarily, he wondered which song was playing. He didn’t recognize it; perhaps it was one of the disks he hadn’t borrowed yet.

“Hey,” he said, forcing a smile. “The usual?”

The man looked up at him. His eyes turned out to be bright blue, and it occurred to Dean they were exactly the same color as the Kansas sky. _The best color ever._

As if to allow Dean to enjoy it a little more, the man was silent. He leaned onto the counter, staring Dean in the eye the way he never did before. His head was slightly tilted sideways, his expression somewhat curious. He looked fantastic.

“We have a holiday offer for drinks,” Dean muttered out of habit. “Buy one, get one free. But we’re closing in an hour.”

“Of course. Black coffee, please.”

His voice was fantastic too: soft, deep, and a bit tense, like a bass guitar string being touched. Dean had never really heard that voice before — usually, the man would just nod at the question and mutely leave with his coffee.

“Right away,” Dean said.

Dean turned around and reached out to start the coffee machine. For some reason, his hands were shaky. He paused before pressing the button, his mind struggling to find a way to stretch the time. He felt this was the chance he’d been waiting for so long and he didn’t have a single idea on how to use it.

He placed a filled mug on the counter and suddenly heard himself saying, “So uh… and Mrs. Columbo doesn’t mind you being here tonight?”

“There’s no Mrs. Columbo.”

It was unclear whether he was referring to the TV show character or himself. Dean chose to hope for the second.

“Yeah, sometimes it helps to be on one’s own, right?” he mumbled lamely.

At this, the man raised his eyebrow. He looked like he’d never expected any conversation to happen here and was no less confused than Dean.

“Excuse me?”

“I mean... uh, I mean when your family is not around, nobody is waiting, so nobody is gonna be disappointed in the no-show.”

“You’re probably right.” He pulled his mug closer and took a sip.

Dean watched him drinking. For a brief moment, he imagined them both somewhere away from this bar with its faded walls and dim lights, standing like that, close to each other, their eyes meeting, their hands locked together. The dream was so vivid that Dean even heard some background music playing for them — jazz music, for sure. Later, he would maybe think of some other styles, but for that exact moment, jazz, with its own breathing, ragged and soft, and a little uncertain, felt like the absolutely best choice.

“I can turn up the music if you wish,” he said. There was no one to complain about the noise anyway.

He got another long stare. “No...no, it’s fine. I think it’s fine. Thank you.”

Maybe it was just Dean being hopeful, but this time there was a glimpse of specific interest in the man’s stare. Dean took it as a good sign. He rubbed his hands beneath the counter.

“Okay,” he smiled, “I’ll be around if you need another drink or something. I’m Dean, by the way.”

The man hesitated a little but then reached out for a handshake.

“Castiel.”

He took his coffee and slowly, almost reluctantly, walked to his table in the corner. As Dean watched him going, he kept smiling with his most stupid smile ever.

That night, back at home, Dean gave his sincerest thanks to whoever was there to receive them.  For once in a long while, he felt almost happy.

#

To Dean’s surprise, what seemed to be a small win soon resulted in a terrific change.

Castiel was now coming by more often.

After Thanksgiving, for the first time, he showed up on a Monday. It happened out of the blue, and Dean, busy with a drink he was preparing for someone else,  didn’t even notice him entering the bar. It wasn’t until Castiel stopped at the counter that Dean finally realized who he was facing.

“Hello, Dean.”

“Whoa, look who’s here! Hey, Castiel,” Dean said, stumbling a little upon the weird name. He could practically hear Mike grinning behind him, and added hastily, “Nice to have you back... unscheduled.”

“I managed to carve out time.”

Dean made coffee for him without asking. Sliding the mug along the counter, he made sure Mike wasn’t listening and winked. “On the house.”

Castiel glanced at the mug, then up at Dean, and squinted his eyes.

“Why?”

“A Monday offer for regular clients.”

“Are you sure this is appropriate?”

“A hundred percent.”

Still uncertain, Castiel gripped his steaming mug. “I could afford it,” he said, “but thank you.”

“It’s my pleasure.”

Dean tried to keep an eye on him but was distracted by a giggling pair standing next in the line. With a sigh, he shifted his gaze and got back to his work.

Castiel stayed for his usual two hours and left, giving Dean a friendly nod as they parted. He hadn’t written much that evening: his yellow notepad had only a page or two turned over. Secretly, Dean felt both guilty and proud of this fact.

After that, Castiel began to come several days a week. He didn’t have any particular schedule, so his every appearance had a scent of a surprise that made Dean’s heart skip a beat. The moment Castiel greeted him with his never-changing “Hello Dean,” spoken with the same deep voice, Dean’s heart nearly stopped. They weren’t progressing any further than that — so far — but Dean had no complaints. He just kept pouring mugs of coffee and smoothly raising the music volume.

Remarkably, Castiel was not so busy with his writing anymore. He took long breaks, pattering his pen from time to time, and sometimes even asked for another coffee. Clearly, now he paid more attention to the songs playing. He listened to them carefully, his stare wandering around the bar room. Occasionally, he would meet Dean’s eye and gave him a slow nod, smiling with his nice little smile. Dean always smiled back, immediately taking a mental note of the lucky music. He felt he was on the right path.

Although it looked like a game, Dean was ridiculously serious about it. While waiting for the proper occasion, he didn’t waste his time. He’d listened to the whole Bernie’s golden disk collection at least three times. He memorized all the names and made his personal playlist of the tracks he enjoyed the most. He got determined to have his own CDs and was only waiting for the season’s sales to start. Sometimes, he even imagined the moment when he’d listen to them together with Castiel. He wasn’t ashamed of his ignorance anymore.

Things went perfectly well — much better than Dean had anticipated.

Until Castiel stopped coming.

#

Castiel missed a few weekdays in a row but it wasn’t until Thursday that Dean got really worried. Thursday was their main day, and previously, Castiel had never skipped it.

Dean didn’t know what to think. He couldn’t call him as Castiel had never given out his number, and he couldn’t drop in as he didn’t know the address. He was unable to reach Castiel in any other way as no one at the bar could give him a clue on where to search. Hopeless, Dean couldn’t help thinking how easy it was for someone to disappear in a city like New York and how stupid it was to fight that reality.

He was nearly desperate. At home and work, he went on wondering what had happened but found no answer. He refused to suppose that Castiel just didn’t want to visit anymore. This seemed too unfair and — as Dean told himself repeatedly — too impossible. There was no reason for him to disappear like that, at least no reason that Dean could imagine.

He watched the entrance door and kept waiting.

A week went by. Castiel didn’t show up.

#

Christmas was approaching. The sidewalks were white with snow, glittering with reflections of highlighted windows. The ice rink in Central Park was full of skaters of all ages, and its cheery music, breaking through the barricades of skyscrapers, was heard a long way around. TV commercials on every channel called hysterically for last-minute shoppers.

Dean was in no mood for shopping. Actually, he wasn’t in the mood for anything, and shopping was just one in a long list of things Dean hated to think of. He wouldn’t go anywhere if he could, but he knew Sam was sending him something and Lisa would be a bit unhappy without a gift from him. Dean didn’t want to offend them. It wasn’t their fault that he’d screwed up again.

With this in mind, on Christmas Eve morning, he went to Strand Books at Broadway.

It didn’t take him long to make his choice. For Sam, he bought a book called _How to Amuse Yourself in a Summer Cottage Without Internet_ that he picked up without even opening it, just for the title that sounded funny enough. For Lisa, he got a modern art book, thick and glossy. He had no idea if she liked modern art at all, but it was never too late to start.

The thought suddenly reminded him of the jazz CDs he’d wanted to buy. To tell the truth, he wasn’t so enthusiastic about them anymore, he just didn’t want to dismiss his plan. This day was no worse than any other.

The music department was located deeper in the building, and Dean began struggling his way through the crowd. He was about to round the corner when his eye caught a little round table with a pyramid of books on it. Attached to the table, there was a blue ribbon saying, ‘New Arrivals.’ Something made Dean stop to take a closer look at the cover.

Printed over a picture of a misty street that looked vaguely familiar, the book’s title read, _Voices of Manhattan_ by James C. Novak. The name sounded new to him, and Dean skimmed through the pages. It was a collection of short stories, apparently all set in Manhattan. Just your usual real-life short stories at the price of twelve ninety-nine, nothing to consider. Dean shut the book and suddenly froze, staring in disbelief at the back cover.

There was a picture of Castiel, smiling gently into the camera. He looked a little younger there and more relaxed, but his hair was sticking out in its typical manner, and his eyes, wide open at the photographer, were the same blue color Dean remembered so well. Undoubtedly, it was Castiel. James C. Novak was probably his pen-name.

The picture was accompanied by a brief biography saying that he had been born in Pontiac, Illinois. Together with his family, he moved to New York City in the late nineties. He graduated from Brooklyn College and published three books. All revenue from his books sales he gave to charity.

He was a writer. A genuine, true writer, who had published books. The gap between them widened to the size of the Grand Canyon. With his real occupation, surrounded by a shiny aura of an acknowledged celebrity, Castiel was standing on the highest rocky shore of it, gorgeous and unreachable. The other imaginary side where Dean had placed himself wasn’t even visible. What a crazy thought it was that they could have something in common, what a perfect blindness took it that far?

Still holding the book in his hands, Dean closed his eyes and swore. There was a bitter taste of defeat in his mouth. That was too much for him, just too damn much.

He put the book back on the table and headed for the exit.

#

Jimmy’s Bar was closed for the holidays.

Too overwhelmed to go home, Dean unlocked the door with his own key and slid in. He squinted at the darkness after a bright winter day. Waiting for his eyes to adapt, he walked up to the counter and put the bag with his books onto it.

Without thinking, acting out of habit, he started the coffee machine. Apart from its buzzing, the room was uncomfortably, unnaturally quiet, and Dean came up to the music system. A CD was already in, the Miles Davis collection. Dean pressed the play button and sat on a bar stool.

The trumpet sneaked into the silence, breaking it with its mild, subtle voice. Dean shut his eyes, listening, virtually inhaling the music he now knew so well and had no one to share with. He felt nothing and only wished for his mind to go completely clear, to be wiped out of all the memories.

He was so shrunk into himself that he did not hear the creak of the door.

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean flinched. As he opened his eyes again, he nearly fell off his stool.

Castiel stood in front of him, at his usual place on the other side of the counter, smiling. He looked perfectly well. He stared at Dean with an expression that Dean knew only one meaning of.

He blinked a few times, as if checking that all this was real. When Castiel didn’t disappear, Dean drew a relieved sigh. “Hey,” he said at last. “Actually, we’re closed.”

“But the door was open.”

“Yeah... I forgot to close it.” Dean made himself look up. “If you’re not in a hurry, I have fresh coffee over here.”

Castiel nodded. “I’d like some, please.”

He sat at the counter. Dean filled two mugs. Taking his, Castiel glanced at the bag with a Strand Books logo on it.

“Christmas shopping?”

“Uh-huh.” This was getting too stupid to go on, and Dean broke down, “I know who you are. I saw your books at Strand today. And I... I thought you weren’t coming back.”

Castiel frowned. “I was just a little busy, Dean. I am sorry I couldn’t notify you.” He paused a moment and suddenly gave Dean his tiny smile. “I was missing you.”

“Me?” Dean repeated, narrowing his eyes. “Or Miles Davis?”

“Pardon?”

“Miles Davis. The one that’s now playing.”

“Oh, the musician... So you’re saying his name is Miles Davis?”

Dean was puzzled. Either he or Castiel was definitely missing something.

“Are you trying to say you don’t know him?”

Castiel stared at him for a good minute, silent. Then he said, “Dean, I really appreciate what you just told me. Because to my shame, I know nothing about jazz.”

Dean thought he’d heard wrong.

“Wait, what? Are you kidding?”

Castiel shook his head. “I am absolutely honest with you, Dean. I am ignorant as a baby. I don’t know anything about jazz. As well as any other style of music.” He smiled shyly at his confession and added, “But I would like to learn.”

And before he finished, Dean already knew he wouldn’t say no.

#

Half an hour later, they sat in Castiel’s living room, light and spacious. Bouncing on the couch cushions upholstered in white leather, Dean waited for Castiel to join him and gazed around. By New York standards, the apartment was small, with its only bedroom nesting on a raised floor, but it was still elegant and cozy. The living room window had a direct view at the top of Chrysler Building, and from his place on the couch, Dean could see its needle-like steeple peeping over the city.

Castiel emerged from the kitchen with two bottles of beer in his hands. He gave one to Dean and sat down, leaning against the back of the couch.

“As you know, I am a writer,” he said, continuing the conversation they had started on their way there. “But that is not how I make my living.”

“You give everything away to charity.” Dean nodded. “I read.”

“Yes. I’m a financial consultant, and my job is paid well enough. Writing is my hobby. I do it for my own pleasure and when I have time. Unfortunately, this doesn’t happen very often.”

Dean sipped his beer and gestured around. “But why don’t you write here?”

Castiel smiled. “This sounds strange, I know, but I cannot concentrate here. Every time I look around I focus on something else but writing. My own belongings, dusty spots on the table, any minor disorder requiring attention, even that magnificent Chrysler Building in the window… I kept wasting half of my writing time staring at those stupid things. And with only a few hours a day that I have for myself, it just wasn’t working. I realized I had to find a different place, one without anything personal in it.” He sighed, looked sadly at his bottle and went on. “I tried working in a public library, but it turned out to be too distracting.”

“What can ever be distracting in a library?”

“Books, quite surprisingly. Instead of writing, I was gazing at the bookshelves wondering if my own books would ever be there.”

“Why not? There are all sorts of cr—” Dean cut himself off, belatedly remembering he was talking to an interested party. He finished awkwardly, “All kinds of stuff.”

“Thank you.”

“Sorry, I just…I didn’t mean that.” Dean took another big gulp and said, “So you found a bar.”

“Yes. Before Jimmy’s, I tried a dozen other bars in Greenwich Village, but they didn’t fit.”

“Why not?”

“They didn’t have the right music. It was either too loud or too familiar. Some had live performances in the evenings, and of course they were incompatible with writing.”

“And Jimmy’s?”

“It was perfect. The point is, Dean,” Castiel turned his head to meet Dean’s eye, “that jazz is the only music I can write to. It’s quiet, unobtrusive, and abstract enough for someone who is so far from music as I am. Why are you laughing?”

“‘Cause I’d made the worst Sherlock in the world,” Dean said. “I thought you were coming to listen to jazz.” He shook his head, still grinning.

Castiel cleared his throat. “I have to admit,” he said in a low voice, “that lately, there happened another reason for my visits. So compelling that I had to take a week off to finish my book in time.”

“Really?”

“Don’t pretend you didn’t know.” Castiel took the bottle away from Dean’s hand, all of a sudden very unsteady, and squeezed it with his. “This,” he said, leaning forward, “is going to be the most long-awaited kiss in my life.”

Dean wasn’t given a chance to speak. Their lips met gently at first but got hungrier, deeper by the second, finally releasing all the tension they had held inside for so long. They embraced each other with a passion neither of them experienced before, gasping for air, muttering nonsense, too excited to think of anything beyond that moment. They deserved that bliss and they knew it.

After a length of time that no one kept track of, they finally let go of each other.

“My basic instinct tells me to repeat that,” Dean said. “Unless you’re up to anything better.”

“I might have some ideas,” Castiel said, casting a glance at the bedroom door. “However, they don’t include starving on Christmas Eve. We probably should get something to eat before everything is closed.”

“And your fridge is empty?”

“Almost. I don’t suppose you’d want to deal with the frozen steaks.”

Dean snorted. “That’s a piece of cake. I love cooking.” He lowered his voice and added, “But don’t tell anyone.”

“I won’t,” Castiel promised seriously. “Sharing such a treasure would be too stupid even for me.”

#

They spent Christmas together. It was one of the best days in Dean’s life. He felt so happy in this apartment with a view of the Chrysler Building that next evening, he had to put in all his effort to leave. He’d already spent an hour getting dressed and was considering spending another hour kissing Castiel at the doorstep.

“We can meet tomorrow, Dean.”

“That’s too damn long.”

“That’s just one day.”

“Too damn long,” Dean said again and he meant it. He leaned in for a kiss and took a generous moment enjoying it. “By the way… Do you have another book to write?”

Castiel frowned a little, looking away. “Oh. Actually, I think I have a story I’d like to write. I even have a title for it already. Winter Music.”

He didn’t elaborate but Dean guessed himself. An old bar playing jazz, two strangers meeting, and one little misunderstanding eventually making them lovers. It would be a nice story, although a bit chick flick as any story with a Christmas-happy ending. Anyway, no one would believe it was true, Dean thought.

“And... are you gonna come over to Jimmy’s to write it?” he asked.

“I would like that. If you don’t mind.”

Of course, Dean didn’t. He zipped his jacket and winked at Castiel. “Won’t it be distracting?”

Castiel rolled his eyes. “If it is, I can always pick the days when you’re not working.”

“Don’t you even dare, Mr. Trench Coat.”

They both laughed as Dean walked out the door.

He waited for Castiel to lock it behind him, smiled to himself, and started down the stairs.

 


End file.
